Samantha - Part 1 of the stories of your friends

I step up the the podium in front of the sweating graduates, all class mates of Sam. I prepare to give my speech.

She was a popular girl. Her friends called her Sammy. Her teachers called her Ms.Cunning. Her parents had called her Sam, always. But no one called her Samantha.

She was on the varsity girl's soccer team. Played Forward and sometimes goalie. Being the over acheiver she was, she was awarded MVP and an offer to play on her city's leading soccer team.

Straight A's always came home. Friends lined up on her Address book. Phone always asking her to talk with her associates. She was smart. Very smart. Some would say genius. She was everything. She was a great musician, the smartest in her school, leading her team to the championship, painting and writing beautifully masterpeiced life tales...a true Renisance woman.

But not a woman...a girl.

She always wore a happy face. Never shed a tear. It seemed that she didn't have to...

A place called home...she wouldn't call it home. Mom dead. Dad always gone with one night stands. And when he was home always drunk with booze and rage over the 50 bucks he lost playing craps in the alley, Sam would sometimes get in the way of the trash can. She wore so many colorful clothes...that never showed her arms. She was often "sick" and stayed home to heal. No one knew about the abuse.

It started when she was 6, and continued until she was 17. She wasn't that strong.

No true best friend to tell. No escape to release the pain that was eating her inside out. It was too late...

Often Sam was plagued with the thoughts of suicide. She was tired to waiting for it to stop. She didn't care for the concequences. The dark thoughts plagued her mind.

Have you ever felt like you were being tied down then streched and streched, harder and harder, farther and farther.

This was her last resort. Would it be wrong or right? Sam was never religious. Nothing to tell her that she was fine.

The self mutilations started at 12. Sam loved long sleeves. She had many colors. Red was her favorite color.

Her letter explained it all. The abuse, the constant struggle to stay perfect, the desire to have true love and not an aftifical substance that often took it's place.

Fake. Artifical. It reminded her off the warm glow that her lamp gave off on those nights where insomnia is her friend. It gave her time to write her letter.

I won't read u her letter. Sam said not to. So as the rest of you graduates go off to college, you'll soon forget the girl that u loved so much during your high school years. I know it's not right. It's most definetly wrong. But as her father, I'm the one who's most wrong. I'm sorry Samantha.